How New Yorkers see the world, courtesy of that other New York magazine. (courtesy of The New Yorker)

Queens doesn’t exist. Or maybe it just disappeared one day while everyone was checking their smartphones and being social. There’s a giant void between Manhattan, Brooklyn and Nassau County. Woodside… felled. Flushing… down the toilet. Jackson Heights… sunk. Only the quickly gentrifying Astoria remains, visible from the Upper East Side on the rare occasion someone looks east and wonders, “what’s over there?”

I suspect the rest of Queens might still be here too, somewhere. I manage to leave and get back to my apartment everyday. None of the many trains that stop in Jackson Heights resemble the Hogwarts Express. Besides, whole boroughs don’t just disappear, at least not literally. We New Yorkers do ignore the parts of the city we don’t visit. We forget about them, go about our lives in blissful ignorance. What other explanation could there possibly be for Queens’s poor showing in New York Magazine’s recently published issue covering the City’s best cheap restaurants?

Eat Cheap 2010

No one who’s ventured across the East River to the outer borough that’s not Brooklyn could argue that the food sucks. Queens is anything but a culinary wasteland. Jackson Heights alone has some of the City’s best Thai and Indian food as rated by other reputable food resources, not to mention Colombian and Mexican and Vietnamese. Hipsters make pilgrimages to my neighborhood to sample the street food; I see them under the 7 train with their pegged jeans and printout maps every weekend. And everything in Queens is cheap, cheap, cheap. Wifey and I can eat out for less than $25 total. We smile when we pay the check, because it feels like stealing. And then we walk home.

In New York Magazine’s rundown, any entree under $25 qualifies as cheap. The whole bill at many of the restaurants mentioned would be much higher…$60 or $70 for a couple who shares an appetizer, orders two entrees and washes it down with tasty beverages. Not everyone can afford that price for dinner. And even fewer people would call that cheap. Of course, all the individual food items covered are less than $25. I don’t mean to suggest otherwise. But calling them cheap eats can be a little misleading.

The $25 dividing line is also an important clue. New York Magazine’s readers are professionals, with a certain income and standard of living. Or at least they aspire to those things. I read the magazine (translation: look at the pretty pictures) to seem smart on the train once it crosses out of the Land that Food Forgot. And because the colors make me happy. The Magazine is an excellent source for commentary on local, national and international events. It’s also known for its informative restaurant reviews. When I need a recommendation for a nice place to take wifey for her birthday, that’s where I turn. Many of my friends do the same, which is why wifey gets a lot of expensive free meals around her birthday.

The restaurants covered in this issue are mostly in Manhattan and Brooklyn, because the Magazine’s readers are mostly in Manhattan and Brooklyn. A few restaurants in Astoria – the Queens neighborhood where priced-out Manhattanites and Brooklynites go – are mentioned. Now more than ever, magazines, like politicians, have to pander to their base. I get it. Times are tough for a printed publication in a digital world. And I don’t begrudge New York Magazine trying to serve its readers. A media company needs to make a buck, lest its paying customers go elsewhere and its writers and editors find themselves on the fair-trade, organically baked bread lines.

But the Magazine is named after the whole city. And the last time I checked, the City had five boroughs. Claiming to represent the best cheap food in New York is just plain misleading. I eat some of the best cheap food in the city all the time. And it’s not in Manhattan or Brooklyn. It’s in Queens… usually Jackson Heights for me. The borough is home to some of the best cheap eats anywhere. How else could an unemployed guy and his wife afford a decent meal out? By failing to show the whole picture, the Magazine does its readers a great disservice.

Maybe it just doesn’t give them enough credit. Queens, outside of Astoria, probably seems like a foreign country, something to pass through on the way to the airport or the U.S. Open. It feels strange to me sometimes, and I live here. People generally gravitate to the familiar, in this case familiar foods close to home. But New York Magazine readers are a smart and curious lot. They know there’s a bigger world out there. And they want to learn about it. Sooner or later they will see that big void across the East River and wonder what’s there. If New York Magazine doesn’t tell them, somebody else will.

You spill my coffee beans. But you also give me a tasty beverage. Do I slap you or hug you? I'll get back to you with my decision. (courtesy of http://www.adamas.com)

I’m a creature of habit. My morning commute to my five-month freelance gig always included a stop for coffee. The project’s long hours made caffeine a necessity. Soon enough, the caffeine headaches made caffeine a necessity. My trip always led me past one of two decent coffee places, depending on the route. The fancy-sounding though utilitarian Pret A Manger – located between the R train and the office – was one. The tasty though overpriced City Bakery – located between the F and V train and the office – was the other. A Pret iced coffee cost me $2.49; a City Bakery iced coffee $3.00 or $3.75, depending on the size. Both were well within my budget while employed.

The freelance gig ended a week and a half ago. The smartphone I was helping to market successfully launched, and is available in a store near you, and 137 stores near me. I won’t say which smartphone it is, though here’s a hint: touching a certain spot with your bare hand won’t hang up your call, unless that spot is the disconnect button. If you need another hint, follow me around and listen. You may catch me inadvertently humming the intro music to one of the videos. It’s forever burned into my temporal lobe.

Another smartphone project may be in my near future. And smaller, unrelated projects are starting to roll in. The last few months of paychecks have bulked up my bank account. But the next few months of paychecks are uncertain. Being essentially unemployed, I’ve reverted to my super, extra frugal ways. No more weekend trips to the south of France . No more summer vacations in the Hamptons. No more chauffeured limousine double-parked out front and ready for my next cookie run. It’s back to life, back to reality.

My first order of business, as someone without a steady income or government handout, was to reexamine my extravagant spending. I brought in executives from PriceWaterhouseCoopers to review my books. They determined that I have no books. But were I to have books, they would be empty, because compared to their usual clients, I’m broke. But were I to have books and money to track in those books, they would contain no extravagant spending. Wifey verified, citing the closet full of toiletries, paper products and breakfast cereal purchased in bulk on sale. I’m one frugal bastard. A raging $3.00-a-day caffeine addiction accounts for most of my discretionary spending.

Cutting back on coffee purchases is every financial advice columnist’s go-to tip. Want to be rich… make your own coffee. Somewhere along the line a Starbucks barista screwed up a freelance writer’s grande double soy mocha-frappu-latte and the company has paid the price in print ever since. Though lazy and cliche, the point is still valid. My coffee purchases add up to $90.00 a month or $1080 a year or $108,000 a century. That’s a lot of money. If I saved for the next 100 years, I could buy a kitchen cabinet or, perhaps, a bathtub in Manhattan. Of course, by then I’d be too dead to enjoy it.

The savings could still come in handy in the shorter term. There was just one problem. I only knew how to make hot coffee. And hot coffee in the New York heat and humidity is about as unappealing as reading job boards. Whatever is a caffeine addict to do? My solution – made possible by a grant from my last full-time employer – was pretty damn ingenious. I would make my own iced coffee. And because I figured out how, you don’t have to. Everyone always says, “that Norm… he’s a giver.” They’re right.

The first step is to buy some decent coffee beans. Wifey (then girlfriendy) taught me once upon a time that coffee doesn’t have to taste like runny tar water. Up to that point in my life, I’d drank it only to stay awake for exams and term papers. Enjoyment never mattered. These days, I’m a bit of a coffee snob. It doesn’t have to be expensive; Dunkin’ Donuts and McDonalds both make a cheap yet respectable cup. It just has to taste like something I want to drink. I went with the NYC blend from Oren’s Daily Roast for $13.49 a pound. Sometimes saving money requires a small upfront investment.

The second step is to brew the coffee really strong. Pouring regular hot coffee over ice cubes doesn’t give you iced coffee. It gives you a watered-down, room-temperature brown liquid. And that’s only enjoyable for people who like hanging out in 12-step meetings and hospital waiting rooms. Most recipes call for two scoops of coffee grounds for every cup of water (hot coffee is generally a 1:1 ratio). That was a little too strong for my refined palate and sensitive constitution. Delicate flower that I am, I had to let the ice melt and water it down. Adding a little more water to the next pot did the trick. Iced coffee, I discovered, reaches perfection at 12 scoops of coffee grounds for every 7 cups of water.

The third step is to add sugar while the coffee is still hot. Sugar doesn’t dissolve in cold coffee; it ends up as a tasty sludge in the bottom of a cup. While a nice little dessert to your beverage, it doesn’t really sweeten it. Four spoonfuls for seven cups proved to to be the right level of sweetness. Wifey would argue that that’s four spoonfuls too many. She would be wrong. It’s the perfect amount to bring out the flavor of the coffee without overwhelming it.

The fourth step is to chill. I put the coffee pot in the fridge. Six hours later, the iced coffee is ready to drink. If nothing else, unemployment has made me good at waiting. Pour it over some ice cubes, add some milk and enjoy. Maybe click away from UselessJobSite.com or NotHiringInc.com for a few minutes. Coffee time should be me time.

One $13.49 bag of coffee beans has given me six days worth of iced coffee so far. And there’s probably another four days worth to go. That’s a savings of $16.51 per bag, or $49.53 per month… not too shabby. If my knowledge of first grade math still holds up, that’s almost $50. I could buy something with that kind of money, besides coffee. Maybe when I find a full-time job, I will.

Morning and evening rush hour on the subway is quiet time. The trains are crowded with commuters. But everyone sleeps or reads or daydreams or listens to music through headphones. Nobody talks, and nobody bothers anyone. It’s a very New York feeling to be surrounded and still alone. And during rush hour – when you’re still half asleep or tired from a long day – it’s a very welcome feeling.

This Rush Hour Quiet Time rule – more commonly known as the Shut the F**k Up Before I Jab You in the Larynx with a Bic Pen rule (STFUBIJYITLWABP) has been understood and respected by generations of NYC commuters, dating back to the early 20th century. Of course, in the those days, it was called the Scram With That Funny Business Fella Before I Let You Have It In The Larynx rule (SWTFBFBILYHIITL). Even a simple “good day” or “bully for you” brought about swift retribution. People work, and people value their larynges… then and now. In fact only three unwritten rules have ever been more important…

• Don’t pet the rats.
• Don’t sit in a wet spot.
• Avoid the empty subway car on an otherwise crowded train, unless you enjoy smelly homeless people fermenting in their own sweat.

Rush hours were quality time when I last had regular work. Opportunists now routinely violate the rule for their own petty and selfish reasons. People have loud conversations on cell phones. Homeless and “homeless” people beg for handouts. And subway musicians force their mediocre music upon weary travelers. The first two can be easily ignored by turning up the iPod. The last can’t.

I don’t mean to hate on music. I’ve been a big music fan since my days playing the “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” drum solo on mom’s kitchen bowls. And I don’t mean to hate on street and subway musicians. Some great performers ply their trade on sidewalks and platforms. The Yanni-looking electric violin player in black leather pants who covers Depeche Mode and Metallica is a national treasure. He almost balances out all the harm Nicolas Cage has done with his movies.

The point is I like my music on my terms. I listen to what I want, when I want and how I want. Take away my choice, and I get a little pissy. I may even reach for my Bic pen. This reaction may seem harsh to non-New Yorkers. Subway music is as big apple as Times Square, the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty. So let’s recast the scenario for those who have only experienced subway musicians as tourists and through TV shows and movies.

You’re driving to work on a Monday morning. Traffic is moving nicely. Something relaxing plays from the car stereo. The light ahead turns red, slowing cars to a stop. You close your eyes and rub them slowly with your thumb and forefinger, thinking about what needs to get done that day. Just then, two guys jump into the backseat. One has a rusty accordion, the other an out-of-tune acoustic guitar. They launch into a song you can’t understand because it’s in Spanish. And they do it three feet from your head. The light turns green, and traffic forces you into motion. The music pounds against your brain. You turn up the stereo, but the noise from the backseat still drowns it out. After three minutes, they stop playing. One of them puts his empty hat in your face; he wants you to pay for the giant headache he just gave you. You wonder what combination of evil thoughts will make him explode, and then make the pieces explode. Before you hit on it, the light ahead turns red and you stop the car again. The musicians jump out and into the car behind you. Two traffic lights later, two other musicians make a stage of your backseat.

What if the music were really good? Would it be okay? No. What if the music were absolutely, positively the best I’d ever heard, ever? Still no. What if angels descended from heaven and sang to me on the F train as it sped through the tunnel under the East River? Would it would be okay then? The answer is still a resounding NO. I want to hear what’s playing through my headphones. That’s why I picked it. That’s why I put in my headphones. And that’s why I pressed play. So unless the same musician materializes and plays the same song the same way, I’m not interested.

Subway musicians feel the recession just as everyone else does. Maybe the non-rush hour donations just weren’t cutting it. Maybe they lost a job and resorted to a secondary talent to pay the bills. I respect that. I’m in the same boat. But you’ll never catch me forcing random people to read my blog and pay me for the privilege. Pick a subway platform and play your music. I may stop and listen; I may even leave a couple bucks. And I may not. But the choice will be mine.

I love a good snow day, even when there’s nothing to stay home from. What kid, or kid at heart, doesn’t? To this day, the news radio chimes make me hope for the words, “Montgomery County schools will be closed today,” no matter the time or season. A snow day is special, a surprise holiday, a day off from my problems. It has a calmness to it. Life stopped late last night and will pick up early tomorrow morning. For now, I’m on snow time.

Queens is blanketed by over a foot of snow. It’s currently coming down sideways. I can see out my window for a couple blocks, beyond the subway tracks to the hospital. The Citigroup and Empire State Building have disappeared into the gray. The streets are empty, aside from the occasional car swishing by. The neon store signs are on, but nobody is out shopping. Everything is muffled, quiet. If only my neighborhood were always this way. If only every day were a snow day.

Around 3:00 this afternoon, I asked wifey via IM how the snow looked from work. Her company is on the second floor and has big windows overlooking the street. She couldn’t tell from her cubicle, and was too busy to go look. She asked me to take some pictures of our neighborhood in the blizzard. This made me think, “I should take some pictures of our neighborhood in the blizzard.” And so I did, from the living room window, on the street and off of the subway platform.

The results probably won’t find their way onto an art gallery wall. But who needs an art gallery when we have the Internet, the world’s biggest and best and worst art gallery? So I present to you the Unemployed Snow Day Photo Exhibition…

[I'll pause here for you to make some hot chocolate and settle in. Those of you in warmer climates can hum the Jeopardy! theme song and imagine Alex Trebek without his toupee.]

Okay, now I present to you the Unemployed Snow Day Photo Exhibition, starring Jackson Heights, some random people of dubious citizenship who probably wouldn’t want their pictures posted online and Snowden S. Snowberry, the star of the show…

The view from my window looks like a snow globe, a really dirty snow globe.

This is Elmhurst Hospital, one of the buildings I’d drive by if I ever needed a hospital.

Imprisoned by unemployment, until someone throws me over the ledge for using really bad symbolism.

I picked the perfect day to play in the street.

The cleanest you’ll ever see Roosevelt Ave.

If you close your eyes, it looks just like Paris, during a blackout.

I have no idea where I took this. I really need to lay off the highballs at breakfast… and lunch.

Who knew there were trees in Queens?

If 7 is a lucky number, why does the train always leave a minute before I get there?

Have card, will not travel

Life used to be so easy when I had a job. Okay, maybe that’s overstating it a little. Subway travel was easy, or at least buying a fare card was. Life was hard then too, just in a different, more financially enriching way. And subway travel was and is always an adventure, like the flume ride at Busch Gardens with a few minor differences…

• No one wants to be splashed with any liquids found on the subway.
• Those clothes some people wear near subway station entrances aren’t quaint and historic, they’re just old.
• People smell worse on the subway, sit closer and are generally not having a good time. They might be screaming and waving their hands in the air though.
• Occasionally someone makes a pass at a woman on the subway and touches himself in a highly inappropriate way. This may happen at Busch Gardens too, but I’ve never seen it.

When employed, I didn’t have to do anything to get a fare card. It just showed up in the mail or on my desk once each month, like magic. Every company I’ve ever worked for subsidizes the cost of commuting in some form. Employees can set aside up to about $100 each month through a system like TransitChek. That money is automatically deducted from their paycheck – pre-tax – and used to buy a subway fare card or commuter rail tickets or transporter passes for beaming to and from the USS Enterprise. The employee chooses the preferred method of travel and type of ticket, and the rest takes care of itself. (I advise against beaming, unless you’re a main character. It won’t end well.) Those were the days, when subway travel required no more thought than where to go and who not to sit next to.

I always opted for the 30-day unlimited fare card, which gave me full access to the trains and city buses. The pass cost $81 when I was last employed, or about $60 after the tax savings. It was a pretty good deal. Any given month includes about 22 workdays on which I’d commute to and from the office. That’s 44 subway rides, each costing $2 then, for a grand total of $88. So even without using the fare card for any other travel, I saved $7, which was really more like $21 given the tax benefit. The savings were usually much greater, since I used it evenings and weekends to gallivant around the city in search of revelry.

Fast-forward to my post-layoff, pre-employment existence, currently known as “the rest of my life.” A monthly unlimited fare card now costs $89, and a single ride $2.25. I don’t take the subway as much these days, as even a brain-dead hamster might deduce from the facts at hand. Where is there to go anyway? No office chair requires the presence of my ass every weekday morning at 9:00 a.m. Aside from some networking meetings and the occasional interview or field trip, I rarely have to ride the train.

I don’t buy an unlimited monthly fare card anymore either. It’s no longer cost-efficient. Only a rare and very busy month would get me on the train 40 times – enough to make it worth the price. And the freedom of having it is an expensive luxury for an unemployed guy. I usually put $20 on a fare card, which gives me a $3 bonus, and then use as needed. That lasts me a couple of weeks. If my schedule is packed with meetings and errands and tea dates with royalty, I buy an unlimited weekly card for $27, and time the start for maximum usage. Then it’s back to pay-as-you-go.

When on an unlimited card, I don’t think twice about subway travel. It’s paid for, and more rides mean better value. When not on an unlimited card, I find myself avoiding subway travel. Is the $4.50 this trip will cost really worth it? “No” is most often the answer. I go to the local gym instead of the nicer one in the city. I go to the local coffee shop rather than the bigger one a few stops away. I shop in the neighborhood rather than in some other neighborhood. Most anything worth traveling for can be found in Jackson Heights, in some way, shape or form. The other day I met a contact for coffee in Manhattan and had an errand to run after. I walked the ten or so blocks instead of grabbing a bus or the train. This wasn’t any inconvenience. If employed and/or packing an unlimited card, I might have still walked. But that would have been my choice. Saving money wins out these days.

The seemingly insignificant difference between an unlimited fare card and a pay-as-you-go fare card has changed my life. I don’t go out as much, even for free activities. I think about whether I really need to spend the couple bucks on subway travel. Small amounts of money dictate my actions in unemployment. My days may be more free, but, ironically, they’re less free as well. I avoid spending money, and as a result, avoid going anywhere.

Did I forget my deodorant this morning?

Tourists and Manhattanites don’t come to Queens. They’re still scared of Brooklyn‘s tonier neighborhoods, where killer mothers, nanny henchmen and four-headed demon newborns of death rule the parks, boutiques and cafes. So this side of the East River, a little north of Brooklyn, where all the foreign people live, might as well be Sadr City for all the visitors trekking out here. Some crazy unemployed guy has an apartment here too, where he composes mad rants about the state of his life for the enjoyment of millions (by which I mean his wife, his mom, twelve unemployed people, six spam-bots and three of the Google hamsters running on a giant wheel out in Mountain View, CA. That is how they keep the Internet going, right?) Outsiders just avoid the whole borough of Queens. Someday, when average property values cross the half million-dollar mark, that may change.

But something happens here every summer about this time. Tennis fans return to roost, like swallows to San Juan Capistrano. The 7 train – called the International Express because of the many ethnic neighborhoods it passes through – becomes decidedly less international. Ultra-proper English can be heard. Country club attire can be felt brushing by. Hands can be seen protecting wallets and iPhones from would-be pickpockets reading or sleeping on their way home from work. The annual visitors follow the DIRECTV blimp floating high above Flushing Meadows. It’s US Open time again, and locals are warned to hide their Heineken. Here come the tennis fans.

I’m a card-carrying white person, but I’m not so big on the tennis. Sure, all the back and forth, combined with the grunting and sweating, can be exciting. But I still prefer to watch eleven large men in pads running into eleven other large men in pads, all of whom are grunting and sweating. (Maybe those last two sentences don’t belong together.) I played a lot of tennis as a kid, in summer camp and with my grandfather. We would hit tennis balls on his neighbor’s court many afternoons and then ruin our dinners with watermelon and root beer floats. But even fond childhood memories couldn’t make me a fan of the sport. Tennis can be kind of boring.

I went to the US Open qualifiers last Thursday. The week before the tournament, the wannabes and also-rans compete for the chance to lose to the players you’ve heard of. The timing once again lined up with my unemployment – another seemingly annual event. Entry was free, but the crowds were sparse – mostly teenagers and old people. It was a great way to spend a breezy summer afternoon, without shelling out your hard-earned tax dollars.

I watched Sam Warburg take on Michael Berrer on the largest of the courts outside the stadium. (Stadium courts are reserved for the real tournament.) The crowd routed for Warburg – the American – though he didn’t show much personality. He did let out a convincing grunt with each racket swing. Sometimes there would be a delay between swing and grunt, as if he’d momentarily forgotten and then remembered he was contractually obligated to make the noise. Berrer – the German – was much more fun to watch. He yelled at himself after bad shots and pumped his fist after good shots. He repeatedly excoriated the official for obviously bad calls. (The officiating was horrible all around.) His accent made the complaints sound more menacing than he probably intended. The players were evenly matched, and points sometimes stretched beyond my interest. Each player just toed the baseline and ripped shots at his opponent, only to have them returned. My neck tired from the constant head turning. Warburg twisted his ankle late in the match, giving Berrer enough advantage to pull it out.

I found myself easily distracted throughout the match, first by the corporate sponsor banners lining the court’s perimeter. Chase, American Express, J.P. Morgan, Citizen, and, of course, Heineken… are these companies targeting me and my vast spending power ($430 a week, baby)? Am I supposed to leave here and go buy a beer or a watch or an investment that gets repackaged and sold to another giant financial institution, over and over, until the economy crashes, I lose my job (were I to have a job, which I don’t) and they get government money to market to me at professional sporting events? I guess actively not caring about these companies and their products further proves I’m not a tennis fan. Maybe I’ve lived in Queens too long.

More interesting than the match and the advertising was the ball boy etiquette. Each match had a six-person ball boy crew. (Half the crew were, in fact, girls, but I’m not going to derail my informative yet whimsical prose with a pointless gender dispute.) Two were stationed behind each player and two manned (see, womanned just sounds weird) the net. Before a point, a ball boy offered the server a ball, and then another, and then another, from which the player chose two. The player served, the other returned it, blah, blah, blah. Afterward, a net ball boy fetched the shot that ended the point. Another offered each player a towel to wipe his brow and racket handle. The others threw balls to each other, ensuring that ball boys behind the server had an ample supply. The process repeated for a couple games. The players then got a rest, but a ball boy’s work is never done. One held an umbrella above each player’s head to block the hot New York sun. Others provided towels and water. The remaining stood at attention until the match started back up.

Being a ball boy is a science and an art. I found myself waiting for points to end so they could execute their duties. I even wondered what it would take to be a ball boy, aside from a time machine and parents who pay my bills. Could I dart across the court at any moment, scoop up a tennis ball and duck into my corner before a 120 mph serve took my head off? Could I remember how many tennis balls to offer up the serving player, and how and when he wants his sweaty towel? I don’t mean to sound flip. I actually thought about this stuff. Alas, it’s not the job for me. I need work that allows me to buy beer, watches and financial products. Maybe then I won’t find tennis so boring.

What's so interesting, lady? Haven't you ever taken a picture of yourself outside Dunkin' Donuts?

Oh, who are the people in your neighborhood?
In your neighborhood?
In your neighborhood?
Say, who are the people in your neighborhood?
The people that you meet each day

Once upon a time I had a job. Or maybe I just dreamt it up to kill time between layoffs. The neighborhood where I worked was filled with tourists and people trying to sell them “I Love NY” t-shirts and sightseeing packages. Navigating the long block between the subway and my office made me want to kill everybody from the Midwest so they’d stop visiting. Of course the important people in my neighborhood were my coworkers. I interacted with them all day everyday. Together we got things done. So let me break off a little somethin’ somethin’ for them…

Oh, the sales guy always brings up the tale
Of the deal he made without fail.
He’ll talk and talk the whole day through
But get your paycheck safe to you.

‘Cause a sales guy is a person in your neighborhood,
In your neighborhood, he’s in your neighborhood.
A sales guy is a person in your neighborhood–
A person that you meet each day.

And let’s not forget the other marketing guy, my former partner in crime…

Oh, the other marketing guy is smart it’s said.
His writing brings the company cred.
If there’s a fire anywhere about.
Well, his words will put it out.

‘Cause the other marketing guy is a person in your neighborhood,
In your neighborhood, he’s in your neighborhood.
And a sales guy is a person in your neighborhood–
Well they’re the people that you meet
When you’re scrounging for free eats
They’re the people that you meet each day!

I don’t go to that office anymore, what with the layoff and all. They even stopped putting money in my bank account for some reason. I spend much of the day in my dining room, in the company of two furry creatures who sleep and drool a lot. My trips out into the world give me some fleeting human contact. Over the last several months, certain individuals have become the new people in my neighborhood.

A friendly middle-aged Hispanic woman runs the register at a local fruit stand. Fruit stands in Jackson Heights are only slightly less common than cell phone stores, eyebrow threading places and people handing out fliers for English lessons. But this one is the cheapest, something I appreciate given my limited cash flow. A pint of fresh blueberries there goes for $1, and a pound of apples less than that. I shop there multiple times each week, and this lady is always working. She smiles when I reach the front of the line and asks after me and wifey in what little English she knows. The questions are generally one or more of the following…

• You go to gym today?
• You no working today?
• Where your wife?
• You cooking tonight? (This one is generally followed by a laugh.)

My answers are generally of the yes/no variety to ease the exchange. She’s probably saying more than I’m understanding. I don’t know much about her, except that she works a lot and her teenage daughter attends the school catercorner to the stand. Our conversations last the time it takes to ring up a basket full of fruits and vegetables and rarely stray from the aforementioned topics. Her boss – the old Korean guy in a “git r done” hat – is usually sitting right there and itching to ring up the next customer.

Oh, the fruit lady always has the kale
And all the other fruits and vegetables that if they were organic would be collected along a trail.
She works, and works the whole day through
To get me the cheap berries blue.

‘Cause a fruit lady is a person in your neighborhood,
In your neighborhood, she’s in your neighborhood.
A fruit lady is a person in your neighborhood–
A person that you meet each day.

The young Indian guy at the Dunkin’ Donuts knows what I want on sight… medium ice coffee, black. This is a high-traffic store on a high-traffic street corner. The 7 train station is directly above and trains rattle by, shaking the store, about every five minutes. The sidewalks are generally too crowded to walk in a straight line for more than a few steps. Inside are always the usual types of characters – a hospital employee on his way to work, a cop or two on a break, some gangly teenagers getting a sugar fix and an old lady of dubious residence with a plastic bag fetish. Random customers come and go. The cashier will yell out my order from wherever he is the moment he sees me. Sometimes he’s helping another customer. Sometimes he’s in the back, if it’s time to make the donuts. Sometimes he’s at home on his couch watching television. It doesn’t matter. I look up upon hearing his voice and nod. He brings my drink. I pay with exact change and leave. That is the extent of our interaction. There was some confusion a few months back over whether “black” coffee meant no milk or no milk and no sugar. That’s long since been resolved, at least as far as we’re concerned. This is the most basic of customer/cashier relationships. But I enjoy it for what it is. And his recognizing me does make me feel important for a few seconds every afternoon. That in itself is worth the $2.37.

Oh, a Dunkin’ Donuts guy is brave it’s said.
His store is orange, brown and, if there’s a police incident, maybe a little red.
If Norm is near about.
Well, my order he’ll yell it out!

‘Cause a Dunkin’ Donuts guy is a person in your neighborhood,
In your neighborhood, he’s in your neighborhood.
And a fruit lady is a person in your neighborhood–
Well they’re the people that you meet
When you’re avoiding strollers and garbage on the street
They’re the people that you meet each day!

There are other characters around too. It’s a rare day that I don’t see the blond ponytail guy with the spiderweb tattoo on his shoulder. He’s generally rocking the mirrored sunglasses and the outsized attitude, like Dog The Bounty Hunter, with only slightly better hair. Sometimes he’s leaning against a wall, and looking important. Sometimes he’s holding court, and looking important. Sometimes he’s hurrying somewhere, and looking important.

Jackson Heights has no shortage of characters, though no one else I see everyday. My interactions with the people in my neighborhood are brief, but I appreciate them for what they are. It’s nice to be recognized, to be appreciated outside of your own home. Work offers a sort of validation that unemployment doesn’t. Sitting at home alone all day can skew your reality. But a quick trip around the block can bring it all back into focus.

You go ahead and drive. I'll just sit back here and try not to talk to anyone. (courtesy of http://www.clevelandleader.com)

Traveling long distance by bus is terrible. How terrible is it? You really want to know? Can I get a “how terrible is it, Norm?” It’s so terrible that it requires a second (and third) post to fully appreciate the heights, err, depths, err, breadth of… well, it’s really bad. And for those wondering, I haven’t run out of unemployment minutiae to jabber on about. We’re only up to post #159; I’ve not yet begun to whine. Besides, my last bus experience bruised my fragile psyche, and I simply must explore it further to avoid further damage and future therapy.

One day I’ll find a job and achieve my goal of never having to ride the bus. And on that day, I’ll happily raise my hand over my shoulder and extend my middle finger as I stroll south from the Port Authority to Penn Station. Please don’t misconstrue this as a personal affront, should you be happen to be within range, unless you’re one of those financial types who turned my retirement savings into a two-week vacation fund, then it applies to you too. But one part of the bus experience will be missed and can never be replaced. The people watching on the bus is some of the best around.

My last trip to Maryland started with an early-morning subway ride to Times Square and a long slog through the underground walkway and wave after wave of commuting humanity to the Port Authority. The line for the Washington, DC-bound Greyhound bus was long, much longer than it tends to be on a weekday morning. It blended with the Philadelphia line; who was in line and for where wasn’t clear. I found what appeared to be the end, dropped my duffel and took out a magazine. There are no assigned seats; everything is first come first served. It looked like the next bus might fill up without me. A woman parked her baby carriage right behind me. Her baby shrieked and cried, occasionally breaking to cough and sniffle. As we waited, the woman edged the carriage closer and bumped my heals. I stepped forward a little, but she did it again. I stepped forward again, and she did it again.

As we played our little game, another woman, dragging her beat-up luggage, approached a couple ahead of me in line. She asked a question, and received an answer. They turned away, and she continued to stand there. It was the old “blend and butt” trick played to perfection. I’ve seen it a thousand times, mostly at the bus station and in France, and when the line is long. The perpetrator associates herself with someone at about the line’s halfway point. Those further up in line will defend their position. But those further back generally don’t care enough to risk confrontation. The perp then makes conversation with someone in line or stands close enough to seem part of the group. As time passes, she becomes part of the line. People notice, but rarely say anything.

The line started to move, and the “Try to Get Norm Sick” game ended. The mother and baby weren’t even in line. So her likely next gambit – sitting next to me and aiming the crying, coughing baby directly at my open mouth – would not come to pass. I was the second to last person onto the bus. And I only made it because a woman and her teenage daughter, not willing to sit apart, got off. The line jumper would have taken my spot. And I would have seethed and waited for the next bus while she rolled down the New Jersey Turnpike.

I took my seat and cleaned my hands with hand sanitizer that I created as a conference promo item for my last employer. Andrew – our hefty and hearty driver – eased the bus through Hell’s Kitchen and into the Lincoln Tunnel. The old lady across the aisle pulled out a sleeve of Lorna Doones – the cookie of choice for grandmas everywhere (including mine) – and ate one. I spent the next 20 minutes plotting how to get one before giving up and falling asleep to The Clientele on my ipod. I woke up when the music stopped; my ipod randomly pauses for no reason. The old lady was pulling out her transistor radio and situating her foam headphones on her ears. I hit play and tried to sleep again. My neck and rear end were already too sore to even feign relaxing.

The bus pulled over at a rest stop just past the Maryland border. People spilled out and rushed inside, returning ten minutes later with coffee and fried chicken and smelling of cigarettes. The bus filled up again, but the couple who were sitting behind the old lady were missing. Through the window, I could see them smoking and relaxing on a bench about 20 feet away. Finally the driver went to talk to them. The conversation got a little animated. It probably went something like this…

Driver: Everybody’s waiting on you dimwits to finish smoking.

Couple: We’re more important than everyone else. Let them wait while we enjoy life’s finer pleasures (tobacco and turnpike rest stops, that is).

Driver: Ok then, we’re leaving without you. Good luck with the walking and the Cancer.

Couple: No wait, we’ll be right there.

Five minutes after the driver returned, so did the couple. The bus left, and the rest of the trip was uneventful.

My dream… to not ride the bus

Adventures in bus riding, part 2

I don’t wish I were a woman. Being a manly, guy-type creature of the male species works for me. It’s nice to have a built-in excuse for my noises, smells and propensity to stop channel surfing on any sports-related event. (I actually just watched a replay of an all-star high school football game while eating dinner.) The common drawbacks, such as body hair, male-patterned baldness and a complete lack of fashion sense, don’t bother me much. And the double standards tend to net out in my favor. So why complain? But on some days – like, say, any summer day in New York City when I have to go to work or a job interview – I’d rather wear women’s clothing. It’s just cooler.

Today’s weather wasn’t that bad for July; 78 degrees and sunny, with humidity thicker than Heidi Montag in math class, is practically Fall in this part of the world. We usually get temperatures 15 degrees higher to go with our atmospheric soup. But it also wasn’t suit weather. I had a job interview (yeah, me!), which meant putting on my finest (boo, me!) and hopping on the subway (again, boo, me!). The meeting seemed to go well, but my travels were less than pleasant.

A couple of my suits are dark and made of heavier fabric, perfect for all my Wall Street power lunches. A couple are light and made of lighter fabric, more suited for summer evenings sipping Mai Tais at the yacht club. Heavy or light, the bottom line is they’re all made of wool. And they’re all really, really, really, really hot. People keep telling me that wool breathes because it’s a natural fabric. It pants… maybe. Breathes… no. Wearing a wool suit in the summer is like wearing fiberglass insulation with slightly less itch. Would someone please bring back the Miami Vice look, and quick? I’ll happily embrace the feathered hair.

I opted for my favorite suit – a charcoal, pinstripe number made famous in a certain New York Times article – matched with a white button-down shirt and a blue tie. It may have been a tad conservative, though entirely appropriate for the occasion. This was a job interview, after all. I considered going with a blue-gray “summer-weight” number. But I opted to sweat out an extra half pound of water weight and not risk being under-dressed.

I managed to remain cool while waiting for and riding the 7 train. My station is above ground and attracts a nice breeze, and the train car was air-conditioned. The Grand Central station – where I transferred – was a little warm, though much more bearable than it will be as summer drags on. Subway stations are like oceans in that they maintain heat long after the weather changes. Some sort of giant fan thing circulated the air. That helped a little, until the cool-ish air mixed with the heat generated by other trains sitting in the station. I draped my jacket over my arm. Sweat began to form on my brow and drip down my shirt. My collar chafed my neck. That was the beginning of the end. I wiped myself off and boarded an uptown 4 express train for a little relief. Hopefully it would catch the uptown local 6 train I’d just missed.

The 86th St. station was much worse. I steamed for another ten minutes, until the 6 train came along to take me to 110th St. There I began walking and continued sweating. I arrived at the offices for my interview dripping. My shirt sleeves, where I’d draped my jacket, were soaked through and stuck to my arms. My hair was wet with sweat. My face was on fire from the razor burn. Oddly enough, my nerves were calm. I found a spot under a tree to cool off, without much success. Shade doesn’t relieve humidity.

But air conditioning does. A few minutes in the bathroom was enough to sponge off and become presentable. My suit jacket would cover my soaked shirt; I’d be fine as long as I kept it on. The interview seemed to go well from that point. The ride home was also infinitely more pleasant. I grabbed a downtown bus to avoid a sweaty backtrack, and transferred to a Queens-bound train at 59th St. without waiting. And then I was home, to bask in the coolness.

Today was sort of an extreme example. I don’t generally wear a suit in the summer, or at any time of year. But when working, I still have to wear slacks or khakis, a button down or polo shirt with an undershirt (can’t have those giant sweat marks) and shoes that cover my feet. Imagine how much more comfortable a breezy skirt and a light blouse would be. Maybe you don’t have to. Some sandals that let the air dance across my toes would be just divine. I’d happily paint my toenails if I could get away with flip-flops in a business environment. And what about capri pants? Aren’t these just shorts by another name? A friend from a previous job and I used to joke about wearing shorts to work and claiming they were capri pants. They’re becoming all the rage in urban areas, so maybe I’ll get my chance, under the guise of “fashion.” Until then, I’ll just have to deal with my sweaty manliness, all the while wishing I could just dress like a woman.

Where to work if the thought of another day at the dining room table makes you suicidal.

I need a new place to go blog and be unemployed during the day with my computer… ok, with wifey’s computer. My requirements are simple. It has to be reasonably close to home, or at least in NYC. It has to be cheap (by which I mean free) and near food and a bathroom. It has to be quiet enough that music through my headphones will drown out any noise. And no one there can care how long I stay. Oh yeah, and it must have unicorns, and rainbows ending in pots of gold. Does anyone out there know of such a mythical place? I’m willing to give a little on the unicorns and rainbows. However, the pots of gold are mandatory, a deal breaker. No pots of gold… no Norm.

I’ve spent much of the last few months working at my dining room table. It’s one giant mess that wifey puts up with but probably secretly hates down to the very core of her existence. Let’s set the scene, shall we? The space where I work is closest to the kitchen facing the wall and a painting of kids on a carousel in France somewhere. I would sit opposite myself (and often do during out-of-body experiences) facing out into the apartment if squeezing into that space weren’t so difficult. My chair has no padding left, so I sit on an old pillow, prompting the occasional hemorrhoid reference from wifey. There’s a pile of printouts, business cards and computer wires pushed off to my left. The cats sit and drool on it whenever they decide to spend quality time with me. I often type with one hand and harass one of them with the other, because I’m ambidextrous like that. When they knock the pile to the floor, I put it back on the table, inevitably mixing it in with the assorted newspapers and magazines strewn about. The salt and pepper grinders stand tall – like beacons of domesticity in a job search wasteland – until I knock them over and scare the cats away.

My spot is nice and central, letting me be a part of wifey and the cats’ madcap escapades. It’s basically the center of my apartment, which is near the center of Jackson Heights, which is the geographical center of New York City. And everyone knows that New York is the center of the universe. So by extrapolation, my workspace is the center of the universe… which explains a lot. But spend enough time anywhere and you’ll tire of it. There has to be another spot.

My desk, where one would think I’d work, is piled high with papers and books and all the other things I’ve been meaning to go through and haven’t. It’s a disaster area, which the city keeps threatening to condemn, and removed from the rest of the apartment besides. I experimented with the couch as a daytime work spot. The TV remains off, because it really wouldn’t be work otherwise. But my urge to watch remains a distraction. So too does the amazingly hot battery in wifey’s computer. An hour of work leaves giant sweat marks on my pants, which would likely raise questions should she come home midday. The UPS guy gives me odd looks too.

My local options are limited… Espresso 77, the bench in front of Espresso 77 and the curb in front of the bench in front of Espresso 77. Starbucks would give me wireless access too if I had AT&T, but I don’t. The good news on that is I actually receive phone calls. Espresso 77 has a strict policy for laptop use. The first hour is free with a purchase on weekdays, and each hour after that costs $5. I’ve never seen it enforced. They did remind me about the policy during my last visit. I was the only one there. And you may remember the outlet-locking episode. I love their coffee, particularly the New Orleans ice coffee, which is some crazy double-brewed concoction with extra milk… sooooooo good. But I don’t feel terribly welcome when I bust out the laptop. The bench out front might work it ever stopped raining and wifey’s laptop weren’t trying to accelerate global warming. As for the curb, I’m not that desperate yet.

Communitea in Long Island City – a short subway ride away and convenient to Manhattan – is another workspace option. The coffee is solid, except for my last cup which tasted like sweetened, milky arsenic. The baked goods are scrumpdilicious. And the place is big enough that no one cares when I hang out awhile; I always make a point to spend more taxpayer money. The other customers are quiet and respectful, except for the smelly hippie guy who taps his ring to the tasteful alt-rock and talks on his cell phone. He’s just asking for a Hong Kong Phooey to the jaw. And maybe a little Captain Caveman action for good measure. I’ll do it, one of these days, so help me. Just keep not showering and sitting next to me. Bad things will happen; I’ve watched too many cartoons and endured too much unemployment.

The Brooklyn Creative League invited me to a blogging event to hype their new workspace for freelancers and small businesses. So I dragged my ass out to Brooklyn yesterday on the subway in a monsoon in search of a change of scenery. This is how desperate I’ve become. The New York subway system floods in a light drizzle, so you can only imagine what it was like in a steady rain. Water poured through the cement ceilings of the station multiple stories below ground. I felt like I was entering an underground torture chamber from a Mel Gibson buddy movie, and some wild-eyed fu manchu guy was going to string me up and shock me with a car battery. Gary Busey didn’t show himself, but I kind of suspect he was there. Why didn’t I just take the ark?

Brooklyn is the blogging capital of the world. It has more bloggers per square inch or per capita or per something than anywhere else. Understandable, since Brooklyn also has more subsidized, tech-savvy white people who are filled with angst, blessed with free time and convinced that everyone cares about their “struggle” than anywhere else on the planet. Maybe that’s just Williamsburg. This temporary relocation actually represented a powerful convergence of centers; the center of the world and the center of the blogosphere were one. Did you feel the great suck pulling you in? Not the pull from Yankee Stadium, the other one, from Brooklyn.

If I were a freelancer or a small business with any sort of steady income and I lived closer, I’d join the Brooklyn Creative League. The space – a decked-out floor of a warehouse with exposed brick walls, shiny wood floors, an open layout, various office necessities and a friendly, accomodating owner – is stellar. And the rates are quite reasonable. Alas, I do not have the wherewithal. But I did take the opportunity to look out a different window down on a different block (Carroll St. and Whitewell Pl.). From my perch, I observed an empty lot with an overflowing dumpster, an elementary school and the back of the Kentile Floors sign that greets F train riders emerging from the tunnel at Carroll St. It was actually fairly scenic in an album liner note photo kind of way. I got a lot done, then trekked back across the city to Queens. It’s back to working at home.